DCI Gene Hunt's Childhood and The Funeral Legacy
by Philip Glenister tomboy
Summary: DCIs Gene Hunt and Sam Tyler were having an ordinary day at the main premises of the Greater Manchester Police Station until the latter is invited to a family funeral in Stockport. It brings painful memories for Gene as he endured all of his father Richard's beatings in the 1970s, especially as some distant relatives don't see the police officer that he's been since the 1980s.


BBC Life on Mars UK: Gene Hunt's Childhood and the Funeral Legacy.

**Summary:** DCI Gene Hunt has another ordinary day at the station with his faithful colleagues until he is invited to a family funeral; some distant relatives and his former retired primary headmaster don't see him as the successful police officer that he's been since the 1980s. He brings DCI Sam Tyler along for some company since they knew each other as children of the Seventies. It brings painful memories for Gene; as he is drinking more fizzy drinks, eating an amount of sweets than usual to keep busy, fidgeting with his brightly coloured gel pens and playing with his old 1980s Nintendo Gameboy system which had one of the first ever games produced.

**Set in 2008**

"The Internet. It's both the best and worst thing the world has ever known. A vast search engine of limitless knowledge; cat pictures, social media, online shopping and porn. It's mostly cat pictures."

"Are you suggesting it's something the Gene Genie couldn't handle?"

"Maybe I am."

"You're such a git."

"It takes one to know one, Guv."

XXXXX

_**Flashback to the 1970s when Gene was a child.**_

_1971: Gene Hunt; eight years old, tiny terror with grand ideas too big for one so small, not frightened of the dark but of the things lurking within it. _

_He sits, alone and afraid, surrounded by monsters he can't see, "Mum, mum!"_

_She comes, a light in the dark, chasing away all those ravenous creatures scrabbling around beneath his bed._

"_Genie, s'alright luv, just a bad dream, nothing to be afraid of"_

_The light from the hallway illuminates the tear tracks still damp on his cheeks and he feels too ashamed to let her dry them._

_Instead of wrapping himself in her warmth, he slides away under the covers and turns his back._

_There's no such things as monsters. Men, real men, know that._

_He's big and tough and doesn't need his mother to check behind the wardrobe because they're nothing more than his over active imagination. _

_Despite knowing he's not up for cuddles and comfort tonight, he doesn't protest when she leaves the door open a fraction._

XXXXX

_1973: Gene Hunt; ten years old, barely able to pronounce his own name, whip thin and sun flower blond with eyes like cut glass. _

_He stands tall and proud, despite the mountainous man towering above him, "No daddy, stop!"_

_Gene's mother, beaten and bruised, reaches out to her son, begs him to keep his mouth shut, "Genie, don't, s'not worth it. I...I'm fine"_

_Disgusted with her almost as much as he is with him, Gene turns, clenches his fists and beats them against his pajama clad thighs, "You're not fine, mam. He's..he's a b..bully, You always tol' me, gotta stand up to bullies"_

_He can feel his old man swaying behind him and prays that he'll fall before he has the chance to turn his anger downward. _

"_Move!"_

"_**No.**__"_

"_Fine then!"_

_As his father unbuckles his belt and walks forward, Gene knows, one day he'll be big enough, strong enough and possibly wise enough to play him at his own game._

_Until then, he'll take what he's given because he's the better man. Even at ten years old, he knows, he'll always __**be**__ the better man._

XXXXX

_1975: Gene Hunt; twelve years old, finding his feet in a world that keeps shifting beneath them, no longer afraid of the things he can't see but the things he can._

_They're picking at him again, he won't be able to find his gym shoes and his shirt's so badly ripped he'll have to sew it up himself before his father sees the damage._

_As they all crowd round, kicking and punching and hurling insults, Gene finds himself angry enough to fight back._

_Lashing out, ramming an elbow into MacClauglin's stomach, Gene watches him drop and the others back away. They're not used to the guy with the greasy blond hair standing up for himself and it throws them enough for him to make his escape._

_He doesn't run far, around a corner, behind a locker and there he waits and watches as MacClauglin's cronies pick him up and dust him off._

"_Little shit, wait 'til we see him after school"_

"_Dunno Mac, that a good idea? He floored you"_

_MacClauglin sneers, rubs a hand across the bruise forming under his ribs and nods, "P'raps it's time we found ourselves another nobody, What d'ya think fellas?"_

"_Yea, he never 'ad any lunch money anyways"_

_They all saunter towards Gene's hiding place and he sinks back, holds his breath until they've passed then goes to retrieve his scattered things._

_Talking didn't work, ignoring them never works, maybe he's found a way of keeping the bastards off his back. Despite the fact it saddens him, Gene now knows, the only way to defend himself is to come out fighting._

XXXXX

_1977: It's impossible to tell, what with Stuart being so out of it all the time but Gene thinks his brother might actually want him around. In his more lucid moments, he tells Gene things about the world that Gene finds impossible to believe but he listens because at least someone's talking to him._

_It's no better at school. He's no good with books and maths just rushes right over his head, so he keeps his nose down and wonders what the hell it is he's supposed to do with his life._

_He doesn't want to end up like his dad, too drunk to remember where he lives. He hopes he's not like his mum, so scared that he'll retreat into himself rather than face the things around him. He'll never become his brother, too stoned to see how much he's hurting the people around him._

_As his English teacher yells at him for the state of his homework, he zones out, imagines being someone else, just for one day._

_What would it be like, to have friends and people that admire him? He sees himself, surrounded by people all clambering for his approval and it makes him smile, earning him another scream for his lack of concentration._

_One day, he'll be the guy every one goes to, he'll be the man no one wants to disappoint. He'll have a family of his own and he'll never repeat his mother and father's mistakes. He'll be a good man, not a cowardly or corrupt one._

_One day._

_1979: Gene Hunt; sixteen years old, finished with school, finished with home, finding a way to make himself heard._

_After the door knocks and Gene sees his mum let the policeman in uniform into their home, Gene slips down behind the front room door and listens to their hushed voices._

"_But, I haven't seen my husband in two years. Why now?"_

"_I'm sorry Mrs Hunt, we found him...he was, he's not awake enough to talk to us. You're listed as his emergency number. We thought you might be able to help..."_

"_I haven't see him, how many times... I probably wouldn't know him if I fell over him now and he's usually too drunk to know who he's fallen over. What happened?"_

_Gene presses his ear as close to the wood as possible and tries to make out what's being said but they've lowered their voices too far for him to pick anything up._

_He stays there, glued to the door, until he hears movement and springs back up the stairs two at a time._

_His mother leads the policeman back to the front door and calls out to him, "Gene! Come down, there's someone here wants a word."_

_Gene comes down the stairs slowly, as if he hadn't been waiting for her shout, "Yeah, who?"_

_The policeman's a big man, sturdy and rotund with an air of someone who knows he's to be respected and Gene finds himself automatically standing a little straighter._

"_This is PC Jackson, he just wants to know..."_

_The copper cuts across Gene's mum, shoves his hand out and roughly grasps Gene's fingers, "I jus' wanted to know if ya'd seen ya old man in the last few weeks"_

_Gene shakes his head, pulls his arm back and looks at his feet, "No, not seen him in years. Why?"_

"_Oh, he's been found, well, you don't need to know but he's in the hospital. Alcohol poisoning apparently, but we just needed to find out what he'd been doin' previous"_

"_Can I go see him?"_

_Gene's mum looks at him like he's grown a second head but keeps her mouth shut._

"_Sure, you wanna come with me, I'll drop you there?"_

"_Th..thanks"_

_Grabbing his coat from the hook, Gene follows the gruff officer out to his car and wonders what it'd be like to have people look at him the way his mum'd looked at Jackson._

_As he rides along in the passenger seat and listens to Jackson swearing his head off at the other cars on the road, Gene finds himself laughing. He likes this guy, he's not sure whether it's the uniform or his easy manner but there's definitely something about him that makes Gene sit up and pay attention._

_As they pull up outside the hospital, Jackson doffs his helmet and smiles, "Take care kid, be good ya hear?"_

"_Yes sir"_

_He's about to slam the door when he finds himself leaning back into the car, "Sir?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Is it hard work, bein' a copper?"_

"_Bloody hard, but there ain't a job on earth more satisfyin'"_

_Smiling, shutting the door, Gene thinks perhaps a bit of hard work's just what he needs. Maybe that'll stop him spinning. _

XXXXX

Back to the present day of 2008 in DCI Gene Hunt's dark blue 1994 Ford Granada Mk3 GLX, both Detective Chief Inspectors get talking to each other about the latter family's funeral that they've been invited to by Mrs. Mary Hunt, Gene's mum.

The invite read: _Eugene Hunt,_ y_ou are cordially invited to the funeral of former DCI Richard Hunt (b. 1934 d. 2008)_

_The dress code will be a suit, no casual wear._

_Location: St. Mary's Church, Stockport._

"It's the funeral of Mr. Richard Hunt. 11:00 a.m, at St. Mary's Church in Stockport. Wear a suit." Gene's expression was so foreboding as to not invite any further questions, but Sam could not resist.

"Any relation?"

"Eh?"

"I can't help but notice the name, Gene."

"Oh. Yeah. My mum will be there, and-" Gene paused long enough to drink the rest of his Coco Cola can "She'll need me. It's my dad. He held on longer than anyone would have believed possible, the bastard."

"Oh." Sam sipped in silence, watching, cataloguing the tremors and the angry pursing of lips, the way Gene's hundred-yard stare seemed to bore through the wallpaper and out into the night. So many questions, but so hard to ask them. Despite every confession Sam has had regarding Gene's personal life, it was remarkably difficult to venture any deeper into it-not for lack of interest on Sam's part, but because Gene had such a... could it be called a front? Walls. Barriers. Not a false mask, but a lot of stuff locked away for years. Such as the absence of Gene's ex wife Mrs. Hunt; the whereabouts of his old mum. The mysterious Stu and his current status, and most of all the before-mentioned father, and how Gene felt about his recent demise.

"Bugger all, Sammy-dude, I didn't want him to die, but I didn't want him to live, either." Gene puffed out a huge cloud of Sherbet Fountain with a meditative sigh. "Funny how the hate burns out after a while and all you see is a scared old man. As long as he stayed away from my old mam I didn't care what he did to himself. And I knew it was going to kill him sooner or later. But Christ, who knew it would take so long?" He tossed back a sizeable slug of the cherry cola with a baring of teeth. "I don't want to talk about him. But I'm going to have to do so, at the funeral. I don't know if I can-that is, if I can stay calm. No doubt some of his decrepit old mates will be there, talking about how great things were back in their day, how tough they were, how pitiful the young folk are. All well and good. But when they start mocking me, and Stu..."

"You can't let them touch you. They're old; you've a career, a life."

Gene's gaze met Sam's, and he looked sad, uncharacteristically so, the green eyes shadowed and his face soft in grief. "It just brings it all back," he sighed. "I don't think much about Stu, these days. But..."

"You can still talk, ring, e-mail or text to me if you want."

"I know where to find you, Sammy, if I ever feel like spilling my guts."

On a normal day Sam arrived at the office by 8:00 a.m. He got his paperwork organized; computer fired up and spent half of the morning working up cases, making phone calls, e-mails and talking to Annie about work. Lunch often involved a visit to the McDonalds on Arndale Road, or sometimes a quick bite devoured in the confines of the boss's Granada. The afternoon usually consisted of driving around, talking to informers, dealing with suspects, writing interview transcripts, sometimes briefing the team, being with Scenes of Crimes officers or the Superintendent, and then more paperwork. Beer o' clock was usually around 5:00 pm, but cases had been known to run late.

Sam figured he'd get to work early the next day and find time to shop for a suit in the afternoon, but business kept him occupied and he finally had to duck out of lunch on Friday and borrow an unmarked car to drive to Manchester's best shopping district.

He started his search at Selfridge's, on the theory that any item of clothing could be found there. He knew how his own dad had dressed years ago in the 70s; flared trousers and broad lapels. He'd seen the range of choices on display in the confines of CID; the uncreased trousers and slim lapels that were a holdover from the Second World War to the Seventies such as a camelhair coat, the wide lapels that used to be all the rage with the old freedom and vague promises of prosperity. Vince was wearing suited numbers and Gene was in his much-loved brown leather jacket from the 1990s. Whatever he found, it was not going to be a balm to twenty-first century tastes in the old A Division locker room. But at least he could find a fine suit of good 21st Century material that fit him well.

After he had glanced at a few racks, a distinguished sales clerk approached. He had a good look about him; impeccable clothing, trousers modern but perfectly fitted, a crisp white shirt with modest lapels, and a buttoned waistcoat.

"Can I help sir with anything?"

"Yeah. I need a suit; something appropriate for a funeral, but it would be nice if I could wear it again later."

"Not black then, but..." The clerk cocked his head in thought, then led Sam down an aisle to another rack. "You might find these to your liking." They were of a finer weave than the ones Sam had been looking at; the fabric felt like slick synthetics.

Sam grinned. "You're a godsend, Mr...?"

"Phelps, sir. I pride myself in having a feel for what a customer really needs."

"Many thanks. This is perfect." He could hardly believe his luck; the suits were just the sort he had been imagining but hadn't dared hope to find. There was a dark grey one that seemed like just what he was looking for.

Saturday dawned grey and rainy, which made it not different from any other Saturday in September, aside from the prospect of watching Gene's father laid to rest. Sam rose early as usual and went for a three mile run through the wet, came back to his flat to shower and have breakfast, and then laid the new suit out on his bed.

It really did give him an inappropriate thrill of excitement, just looking at the thing. He'd have called it brand new. Many of the much older plain clothed officers in CID actually dressed as their fathers would have, but he had no desire to follow in their footsteps. No, this was a classy piece, great material; wider lapels than he'd ever have chosen usually and a distinct look to the cuffs of the trousers, but elegant and understated nevertheless.

He felt a glow of appreciation as he pulled the trousers on, buttoned them up and shrugged into the shirt-cotton, after all it is 2008. It felt luxurious against his skin. What a pleasure to wear something new and perfectly fitted. The jacket was the crowning glory, the way it nestled against him, the fabric cool and crisp. He spared a wry grin for the black leather number draped over his dining chair. Funny how much an article of clothing could become a part of you. It did seem like a bit of a betrayal, appreciating the fine suit coat so much, and yet it also felt exciting to be dressing up for an event-even an event as dour as a funeral, and he had to admit that he was curious about meeting Gene's mother.

A thudding at the door announced Gene's arrival, and a moment later he blew into the room, damp and grouchy and wreathed in tears. He came to a halt in the middle of the room as if he wasn't quite sure what to do next, gave Sam a curt nod, then raised an eyebrow as he fished a flask out. "Cheers! Where'd you shop for that thing-I know you didn't have time to make it to the expensive cosmopolitan shops of London!"

"Cheers to you! You'd be surprised at what can be found in Manchester. We're off, then?"

"Aye, no point in waiting." And yet Gene stood, cola can in one hand, Curlywurly in the other, chin lifted but eyes distant, and it seemed as though inertia had glued his feet to the floor. He looked bigger in a black suit, though vastly uncomfortable, somehow stripped of his authority by the lack of his leather armour. In it's place was black wool, somewhat smelling weird, a little tight across the shoulders. No longer quite the Gene he knew, but a forbidding dark figure.

"Gene?"

"Gene closed his eyes, puffed a little, sherbet breath out through his nostrils, and nodded. "Right. No sense waiting."

"I'm sure we have time for a drink, if you need it."

"Had one at Stopford House." he had a mocha coffee post-breakfast, shook his head, but then eyed Gene surreptitiously as he toed into his shoes and picked up his umbrella. The man was as lost as ever Sam had seen him.

They tramped out to the Granada, and the drive out of Manchester and through the countryside was notable for a distinct lack of Gene's usual vim and vigor. They were going to his father's funeral, after all, but there was so obviously some confession to be had that it was all Sam could do to feign nonchalance and fidget with the Ford radio buttons.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked at last, breaking the monotonous silence and earning an exasperated sigh.

"I should have known you'd talk."

"Jesus, Gene! You've got to have some feelings about this."

Gene turned his head from the road to direct his glare directly in Sam's direction. Sam tried not to quail. "Look. I just-I want my mate there, all right? I don't want to talk about it now. There'll be plenty of nattering at the funeral with my dad's old mates, and all the old biddies comparing stories and supporting my mam, chattering about what a shame it is, and why couldn't Stu still be-" He choked off, breathing sharply through his nose, and then whipped his head back forward as the Mk3 Ford Granada took a sharp turn to the left.

Sam bounced off the door as the two wore their seatbelts, with no greater fears for his life than usual, and once they settled into a steady pace again he cleared his throat. "You can talk to me about Stu if you want, Guv."

This time Gene's big fist lashed out and thumped Sam's seat painfully in the head rest. "Said I didn't want to, damn it!" He kept his eyes on the road this time, but his face contorted with what definitely seemed like pain-unless that was projection, given Sam's painfully throbbing deltoid. "Look, keep your gob shut for another fifteen minutes, and if you want to talk after the funeral we'll go out for a pint. That good enough for you, Sam? Can you stop with your nattering for once?"

"Fine," Sam sighed, and did his best to appreciate the rain-wet countryside while massaging his shoulder surreptitiously.

St. Mary's Church was not much different from a thousand other small parish churches dotted about the countryside. Built of local stone, the graveyard fenced with the same material, and a small cadre of black-clad figures puffing smoke as they waited by the front door. They squealed into the parking lot and Gene maneuvered the '94 Ford Granada into the farthest slot amid a collection of depressing post-war automobiles, 1980s Nissan Micras and 1970s coke bottle curved Mk3 Ford Cortina saloons.

Sam followed in Gene's wake as he stumped up to the group by the door and greeted them with a grunt.

"Well if it isn't little Eugene Hunt!" drawled a sour faced old man. He was shorter than Gene by half a head, lighter by several stone, but his bitter, sharp-boned face expressed nothing but scorn. "Decided to grace us with your presence, eh?"

"Leave well enough alone, Tom," cautioned another elderly man, but Tom was not to be dissuaded.

"I suppose we should be honoured when the mighty Detective Chief Inspector shows his face!"

Sam noticed that Gene had assumed his stance of intimidation, familiar from many an interrogation-chest thrown out, lower lip extended, a chocolate quivering at an extended angle below his glowering glare. Here we go, then, he thought to himself, and assumed his customary position at Gene's shoulder, half a step behind him.

"And who's this?" the fellow continued, his squint shifting to Sam. "Your new missus? Dresses like one!"

Sam bristled, but Gene put a restraining hand on his arm. "Oi. Keep a civil tongue in your head. This is my junior DCI, my fellow police officer and old best friend."

"Well now, Mr. Eugene Hunt," the friendlier old man blathered. "It is good to see you."

"Ta, Gerald," Gene nodded curtly. "Tom." His gaze lingered for a moment, but then drifted on to the next cluster of elderly men in black. "Mr. Hudson. Benjamin. Shame we have to meet in these circumstances."

"Some might agree," the balder one muttered, and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Aye. Death of a good man. Shame."

They made desultory gestures of condolence, half-hearted pats on shoulders and nods as Gene, with Sam in his wake, moved through the crowd.

But before he could mount the steps to the church Tom raised his walking stick to prod Gene's shoulder, leaving a muddy blot. "You don't care," he hissed. "You wanted your old dad to die. For years, you did. You said as much, ungrateful twat. Ever since your no-good wastrel of a brother blew his own life with gangsters, you turned your back on the man what fathered you."

Sam was stunned into immobility both by the unlikely attack and this unexpected piece of Gene's history, and watched in silence as Gene's beloved blue gel pen fell from trembling fingers. He'd never seen Gene's face twist like this, not even when Woolf was injured, not even in the dawn raids, looking back into Gene's outraged disbelief... This, this was the man Gene didn't want to have to face. This used-up old man was why Gene had wanted a friend at his shoulder. Having seen Gene take down far more threatening adversaries, Sam didn't know why that comment had wrung such pain from his senior DCI.

Gerald put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "He's here now, isn't he? What more do you want, Thomas?"

"I want this one to be a man for once," he snarled with desperate spite.

Gene faced him with chin raised, lip pouting. Sam knew the expression well; the front of bravado, hiding all. "Don't touch me again, Tom Hardy."

The old man sneered, his sour, bitter mouth splitting in a cackle. "That's rich. I'm too old to put you over my knee-or over my desk. But I'm not afraid of you, young Hunt."

"Unless you've broken any laws, you shouldn't be."

"Oh, the big man, eh? That's what you want people to think, eh?"

Gene's chin twitched upward.

"Come on, now, Tom. Let's get inside. The service will be starting soon." Gerald attempted again to intervene, but Tom furiously brushed off his hand and gave Gene another shove with the tip of his stick.

"You think a badge makes you a man? Daft bugger, you're not half the man he was!"

"Not half of him?" Gene's voice broke upwards on the last word, a strangled note of disbelief. "A man like my old dad? I haven't beaten enough women and children for you, Tom?"

"You have no idea-"

"I lived with him, you bloody fool. I saw the blows fall. You can't tell me-"

"You don't know how he grew up, how he struggled to feed you, and her-"

"I never saw him struggle in my life!"

"-before you were born, he worked on t' mines, then in the A Division of Salford and Manchester Police, and it was twelve hour days, you can't know-"

"That's no bloody excuse!"

Closer and closer they came, panting in each other's faces like dogs waiting to smell fear, waiting for someone to break. A vein throbbed in Gene's neck, a furious colour rising to his cheeks. Tom had the narrowed eyes and bitter mouth of a born fighter. He'd go to the last round. Sam watched, helpless in the face of their fury.

"And you never gave him a grandchild," Tom continued in a hiss. "Got something wrong with the plumbing? Lord knows your ex wife was a fine woman; you had a lot of good years with her before she left."

Gene's hand lashed out, grabbed Tom's tightly buttoned collar, pulling the cloth up tight around his wrinkled throat. "Don't you dare-"

"Stu didn't, you couldn't," he rasped onward, "Left your old dad to die on his own, you did. What kind of son does that to his father? You're no kind of man, and nor was your brother. I heard tell of the life he was living, before he drugged himself..."

"Don't you dare say a word against Stu," hissed Gene, eyes narrowed to slits of rage, and gave the smaller man a shake. "He suffered enough, poor bloke. Suffered enough from you, you violent, conniving vicious excuse for a bullying headmaster. God Almighty himself wouldn't have come through that unscathed."

"Weak," hissed old Tom, though his eyes were bulging in his red face, "he was weak, unmanly, girly-boy-"

And then hands were pulling at Gene's arms, as the older men around him broke free of their shock, black coats gathering around him like a flock of crows harassing a hawk.

"Gene," said Sam, softly.

Gene's eyes met his. His face was suffused with rage but his eyes were brimming with tears. And then as if by divine intervention the rain began to fall in earnest, and if any salty water ran down Gene's face it was lost in the wet and the hubbub of getting everyone inside, fags crushed underfoot and umbrellas folding, any additional vitriol muffled by the general hum of conversation.

"Gene," said Sam again, when they were among only a few left in the entry, peering through the doorway into a modestly crowded church-although the small size of the place seemed to amplify the whispering couples.

Gene shook his head once, firmly. "Later," he muttered. He seemed to have pulled himself together, Sam put a hand on his shoulder, and after a moment when Gene didn't refuse it; he pulled him into a brief, heartfelt hug, letting go almost at once as he felt the instinctive jerk of reaction.

"I'm here," Sam said quietly. "We'll get through this."

Gene chewed his lips, looking left, then right, the back at Sam with a quick nod of agreement. He capped the flask, slid out of his grey raincoat and strode up the aisle, Sam hurrying behind him. They went to the front of the church where Gene took a seat next to a gaunt older woman in a black dress.

"My DCI, Sam Tyler," he murmured to her, and Sam extended a hand which she took in a surprisingly strong grip. Her piercing green eyes were keen on his face, the most lively aspect of her otherwise wan visage.

"Mr. Tyler. Thank you for coming, I remember when you were this small."

Sam nodded, taking a seat next to Gene as the minister approached the front of the church and the coughs and whispers died down.

It went as most such services went. Sam felt his eyes glazing over within the first ten minutes, at the droning voice of the minister, the trite phrases, the attempts to put a good face on the life they were there to celebrate. Gene's hand twitched in the periphery of Sam's vision. Yearning for a console controller. Sam ran a hand up and down the fine woolen fabric of his own trousers, glanced at the dour skies through the stained glass windows. He managed an occasional glimpse of Mrs. Hunt on Gene's other side; she had Gene's nose, his determined chin, although her eyes were sunken and she seemed tiny next to his bulk. She reached over with her gloved hand and placed it on top of his; Gene's twitching ceased.

There was singing; a small boys' choir. Mrs. Hunt stared stolidly ahead, dry-eyed. Gene put his other hand on top of hers, gave it a squeeze. After the singing came what seemed like a closing statement about the permanence of the hereafter, the fleeting nature of life. And then the minister asked if anyone had any words to say.

Gene's mother got to her feet. She looked so small at the pulpit it was hard to believe Gene had come from her. Small but somehow indomitable, as she looked over the gathered congregation with a weary acceptance, and gave them a nod. "Richard lived longer than any of us expected him to, what with the lung fevers and the bad leg. I can't say those last years were good ones, but we stuck together and made a life of it. I did my duty by him. I only wish his two boys had survived him, as they ought."

"Blimey," someone snarled.

Gene got halfway to his feet, twisting around. "Oi! Keep it down, she's talking!"

"You know how I feel about your wastrel brother," Tom Hardy called out. "Now I see you sitting there with that poncey city fellow, and I'm glad your old dad isn't here to watch!"

"Shut it or I'll have you in Custody for disrupting a public event under the Public Order Act!"

"Oh, that's rich, that is! Throwing your weight around! You're not man enough to take me down, young Hunt! You don't have the tackle for it!"

Sam was alarmed to see Gene's face go instantly two shades darker. "You wanker. Here-I'm damned if I-" he sputtered, trying to shake Sam off, even as Mrs. Hunt moved toward them with a resigned acceptance on her face. Funerals ending in fistfights; it probably was not unheard of, but Sam still felt he might redirect the inevitable.

"Come on, Guv," he muttered, pushing Gene back with one hand on his chest. "Let's go. Beer o'clock, yeah? Bugger this."

"Yer dad would be glad Stu isn't around to see this day!"

Sam spared a glance to see some of the other older men trying to calm Hardy, and was pleased that it wasn't a unilateral disarmament-and then grunted in surprise as Gene's elbow hit him in the head. He managed to grab at the tails of Gene's jacket as his superior officer made to leap over the pews, jerking him back down and grabbing him around the waist just long enough for a few other men to take him by the arms.

"Gene!" cried his mother. "Gene, please. Just let it go." She pushed her way up to him. "You don't need to do this. Let it go."

Gene shook his head.

She compressed her lips, and Sam suddenly saw Gene's pout in her expression. "Old Hardy's a bloody fool, and he's been diagnosed with lung cancer. He'll be gone by next spring," she told him sharply. "Don't give him the satisfaction. Let your dad go with a whimper, rather than a bang; he'd hate that."

"I didn't appreciate the way he interrupted you."

"Nor did I. But it's over, he's-" she looked toward the entrance, nodded. "He's gone. And so should you be. Go and have a pint, let it go. I'll see you next week."

"Alright. For you. But it's not over."

"It is," she poked him in the chest. "Go back to your job, DCI Genie Hunt. You've got people to look after. Thank you for coming, DCI Sam Tyler." She reached out to shake Sam's hand. "It's nothing but a pleasure. Gene has told me good things about you."

"He has?" Sam stammered before he could stop himself. "Err, thank you."

"Lovely to see you together. Tell Genie to bring you by for my steak and ale pie sometime." And with that she turned to go, with an escort of older men.

Sam stood gaping until punched again in his already sore shoulder. "Let's go," grumbled Gene, and was out of the church before Sam could find his umbrella.

The Mk3 Ford Granada was already running by the time he leapt in, and then they were off. Fortunately it was a matter of only a few minutes of (terrifying, wheel squealing) driving before they were pulling in to the Grey Horse Pub. Gene ripped the key from the ignition and leapt out of the vehicle before Sam could open his door, and stamped up to the entrance where he paused long enough to shoot Sam an impatient glare. "Are you coming or not?"

"We're not going back to Manchester?"

"As you would so blithely say, 'duh'. I'd like some whisky for a treat sooner than later. Here we are, come in or stay out as you please."

Sam bit his tongue and hurried in Gene's wake fast enough to grab the swinging door before it closed.

Gene had already bellied up to the bar where he asked, "Whisky. A double."

"Pint for me," Sam added with an apologetic smile for the indifferent barkeep, and accepted his brimming glass with an appreciative nod. It was more than time for alcohol, and any discussion that was to follow would be easier for it. But it was up to Gene, really; the ball in his court and all that, if he even felt like talking at all.

Gene drank off half the whisky in a single gulp, bared his teeth and the world and drew a harsh breath. "Bloody hell, that was worse than I ever imagined. Why old Tom Hardy had to be there I do not know. No doubt one of his old cronies invited him-worse than a bunch of cackling hags, they are. I wanted to kill that man when I was a child."

"Him and your dad?"

"Oh, yeah, but Stu and me, we figured that'd be too hard for our mum, both of us sent to a kids home for murder. The things that restrain the youth. You do hear stories about stern headmasters, and Hardy was one of the bad 'uns... but they never get their just reward, do they?"

"I think things changed for the better."

"Some things." Gene was playing Mario Land on his old 1980s Nintendo Gameboy DMG, eyelids fluttering. Sam stared in fascination. Sometimes it seemed uncanny, the degree to which this heavily built and tall stack of a man could exude a rude sexuality, even after an afternoon of watching him repress angry emotions. And where the bloody hell had that thought come from? No doubt it had to do with the degree to which the black suit changed Gene, made him into a stranger, and the way that Gene always took such an animalistic enjoyment in his vices.

"Some things don't," Sam murmured, not even sure what he meant.

Gene nodded, thoughtful, as he blew air out over the bar. "He called Stu a fruit-picking sodomite," he said, in measured tones.

Sam blinked. "You never said that before." Although it seemed characteristic of Gene, to follow up a dose of vitriol with a naked confession.

"Hardly talked to you about him before, did I? But I think you bloody well deserve the truth, after braving that gauntlet today. That's why they hate him so much. That's why my dad drove him out of the house." He heaved a huge sigh, staring across the pub with half-lidded eyes.

"And Stu... ended up becoming a drug user?"

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry, Gene."

Gene tossed back a gulp of whisky with a grimace. "Don't be. I'm not sorry Stu was... who he was. I'm sorry that wankers like Tom Hardy made our life a living hell. I'm sorry that lowlife scrotes gave him drugs that he wanted so he could numb the pain for a few worthless hours. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger for him. But in the end he thought addiction was the better option; who am I to question his decision?"

Sam felt a chill not related at all to the steady rain outside the darkening windows. Death and life; he tried not to think about those topics, most days. Tried to be in the moment. But it was always there, however much he might try to live this life he had chosen. "You don't think it's a sin?"

"Ruining his life? His to take, the way I see it. We couldn't ask him to live for us, my old mum and I. You see," and he leaned closer, his elbow on the table next to Sam's, close enough for Sam to smell the tears in the black suit jacket-and when had Gene worn that last? To Stu's funeral? "He wasn't the sort to pretend. And because he couldn't put on an act, his life was so much harder for him."

It was more empathy than Sam had ever expected to come from the mighty Gene Hunt, and it took him aback, left him slack-jawed and staring, more taken in than ever. "Um," he said at last, and took a hefty swallow from his pint.

"What's the matter, Sam?"

"I just. You seem so-understanding..."

Gene snorted, and suddenly his face looked far more like it usually did, disbelieving and sarcastic and snide. "He was my brother!"

"Yeah, but I didn't think you had any sympathy for him."

"You're saying? Never thought it given the way you moon about after Cartwright."

"I-it's just not so-you always talk about it as if it's so black and white." Sam stammered, but then noticed Gene's smirk.

"It is what it is, Sam. Stu was a homosexual man, and he liked men. Sometimes I wonder if that's why my old dad was so rough with my mam all those years. Trying to be something he wasn't, trying to do what was expected. Lord knows there are expectations." He sighed, looked down at his hands resting on the bar. Sam followed his gaze, noting as he always did the contrast between the size of Gene's hands and their surprising gracefulness, the long agile fingers, manicured. The mark, still visible, where his wedding ring used to reside. "I tried to do the right thing, but it didn't work out, did it? As Tom mentioned, there are no little Gene Hunts running around, raising havoc."

Sam raised an eyebrow and shrugged, then drank more beer in lieu of saying anything. What to say? But when he put the pint glass down again one of Gene's hands slid across the bar and touched his, just the merest touch of finger to wrist.

"Thank you," Gene said, softly.

"Well. I am your junior DCI and old childhood mate, it was my duty to back you up."

"I hoped it was more than duty brought you there."

Sam took in a sharp breath. "What do you mean?"

Gene swallowed, flicking a glance up to Sam's face. "I thought it was obvious," he said . "By now I thought you would have picked up on all the signs, after today."

"You-" Sam cleared his throat. "You mean-"

Gene ground his sweet wrappers into a bin, braced both hands on the bar for a moment while he heaved a sigh, and then bumped his knuckles against Sam's. "You fire up my mighty engine. You came with me today. And I find I like the sight of your suits."

"You surprise me all the time. I've always been under the impression that you needed counselling."

"It's all talk." Gene fiddled with the pens. "You drove me in the right direction, with your contrary ways, when at your first day in 1988 as a Police Constable. But I can't deny that you work well, that yours and SOCO's scientific methods get results. You help me think clearly, Sam."

"Are you saying that I complete you?"

Gene let out a laugh. "Near enough, Sammy-dude. Near enough."

Their eyes met, and Sam felt a strange shock of recognition, or of realization. Gene's acne scarred, pocked face was as familiar to him as his own, and it gave him a new thrill of delight to realize how happy he was to be sitting here next to this man, watching the slightest hint of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Sam crooked his little finger, capturing Gene's, and held it there for a moment before lifting his hand to down the rest of his pint. "I can safely say that your feelings are mutual."

"Right." Gene grinned, the sort of smile that so rarely graced his face; an expression of true joy, and then he looked down again, at their hands so close together. "We'll continue this conversation later then."

"Yes, I believe we will."

"That'll do." Gene sucked a Wham bar deep into his lungs, released it's taste with a sigh of deep contentment. "One more for my friend and me, here," he gestured to the barman.

Sam took the golden pint, took a breath and the hint of old beer wafting from Gene's glass, listened to the rain pelting the windows. Life and death. And life again.


End file.
